Silver Cord
by Lalaith Quetzalli
Summary: (One-Shot) Matches still exist among those with magic in their veins, its signaled by a cord connecting both partners, which becomes visible to both the first time their eyes connect. They are supposed to be perfect matches... except for when one half chooses to reject the bond... (Begins after Sherlock's exile) HLV Fix-It of sorts - Slash - Magical Realism - Soulbond


Don't own Sherlock yadda, yadda... nor James Bond (there are slight implications... following what's become my headcannon for John).

So, as the tags state, this piece has warnings for Magical Realism and Soulmates (and all the messes that come from putting such things inside the Sherlock BBC fandom...)

The 'Silver Cord', for those interested, is another name for the akai-ito or the red string of fate in japanese mythology (I prefer the name I use here... and to be perfectly honest, I got it from the Secret Circle book series).

I'm not British and I don't have a Beta, you all know by now what that means.

* * *

 **Silver Cord**

" _Also... your loss would break my heart." MH_

" _What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!" SH_

John Watson was pacing, like he'd been doing for nearly half a day, since Sarah had insisted that he return home, after deciding he wasn't helping anyone. John just knew something was wrong, he'd woken with a slight pain in his chest and it had only gotten worse, to the point where he'd begun having trouble taking deep breaths and was feeling phantom pains in other parts of his body. The fact that he knew what those symptoms meant and how not-good it all was, had just made him all the more distracted (hence Sarah sending him home).

He was about to start his umpteenth circuit when the echo of a door opening, following by fast and quiet steps, stopped him cold.

"How bad is it?" He asked, voice almost breaking.

"I'm here with a car." Anthea, Mycroft's PA answered him. "We have to go Dr. Watson."

John didn't ask any questions, didn't make any complaints, he simply grabbed his jacket (even though it was the middle of the summer, the evenings could still get a bit chilly sometimes).

They were in Mycroft's private office in a matter of minutes.

"What's happened?" The doctor asked as soon as he was in, forgoing all pleasantries.

"Sherlock was made sometime in the last three days." Mycroft began explaining right away. "We know this because he missed his last check-in. We were expecting something like that to happen, of course. I told Sherlock from the start that the mission was expected to last six months..."

"Right, suicide-mission, I'm familiar with those." John deadpanned, voice heavy with sarcasm. "However, since a) you're a Holmes and b) regardless of how much you might pretend not to I know you care for your brother... you must have some kind of plan." His eyes narrowed. "In fact, I'm quite sure you must have had it from the very beginning."

Mycroft seemed honestly surprised that John had been able to read him so well. He wondered if perhaps that was why Sherlock liked him so much...

If Mycroft was honest with himself, he'd never truly understood his brother's 'fascination' with the traumatized former military man. While the man was capable of astounding insight every once in a blue moon, he was no genius. The one thing the elder Holmes gave the man, was his amazing capacity for dealing with Sherlock, even during his darkest moods. Still, Mycroft believed that John Watson was responsible for the consulting detective falling into the entrapment that was sentiment; which had been the origin of the whole disaster with Moriarty. The brothers had had a plan, it should have been a perfect plan... except for the vulnerabilities neither of them expected Sherlock to have. And the younger Holmes had paid for that, almost with his life... At the same time, the way the doctor had received the consulting detective after his two years of absence, it was more than even Mycroft had expected.

And then came Mary Morstan... or Alicia Addams. If it had been up to Mycroft he'd have put the woman in some dark cell and thrown away the key; or even better, he'd have sent her on that mission to Eastern Europe and made sure she never returned. But she was John's friend, her daughter was John's goddaughter... and apparently she'd helped John deal with Sherlock's 'loss'. Which meant that his brother of course wanted to help her, even when she shot him in the chest (then again, the shot had been so precise nothing had been permanently damaged, she'd obviously taken great care when doing that). And then there was Magnussen. Mycroft cursed the day Sherlock discovered sentiment, and how far he was willing to go for it. If his little brother hadn't killed Magnussen they'd have never ended all in that mess...

If the elder Holmes were to be honest with himself, there was another reason why he didn't like John (some might say he hated him), something that had nothing to do with anything Sherlock might have done, and everything with things John hadn't. Mycroft would always believe the blonde man didn't give everything he should/could have... though Sherlock had forbidden him from ever bringing that up before the doctor.

In the end, there was no point focusing on that. Things were what they were, and he still had to find a way to get his brother back to London, preferably alive. John was right, he'd a plan, there had always been a plan. And like he knew the doctor, he was sure the former captain would want to be involved; and, as much as he may hate to admit it, Mycroft knew John was one of two, maybe three people he could trust with his brother's life, so there was no other choice.

"Right now a team of highly-specialized operatives is getting ready to storm the terrorist base that Sherlock infiltrated, using the information he gave us over the last six months." The elder Holmes stated. "The operation will take place in three days."

"Which means we have two to get in, get Sherlock out, and be gone before anyone finds us." His PA finished seriously.

"We?" John asked, not quite expecting that.

"Indeed, Captain Watson." The woman nodded, all business. "We."

"You have no magic, correct?" Mycroft asked in what almost seemed like a pedantic tone.

"Yes, Mycroft, is this really the time to rehash a conversation we had five years ago?" John demanded in a rather caustic tone.

"Of course not." Mycroft stated, though there was a hint of something in his voice.

John could only roll his eyes. He could feel that Mycroft was trying to provoke him, for whatever the reason, usually he'd have taken the bait, he knew perfectly well that the Holmes family still held a fairly high level of magic, but that was no reason to look down on those who'd lost it all generations earlier.

No one knew for sure if the Fae were a separate species who'd all but become extinct, except for a few who'd mixed with certain human lines across the world; or if all along they'd been part of the human race, individuals with higher powers (the origins of the legends of witches, sorcerers, spellweavers and many others across the planet), which had been thinning in the last century or so. One thing was for sure, though, 'matches' only existed in those with fae blood (some said that was a help for a perfect couple, others believed humans had freedoms the fae never would). Still, a match was shown by two compatible individuals who were connected by a usually invisible magical bond, the 'silver cord'.

There were those super-romantic who stated the 'silver cord' marked soulmates, those who were so perfect together they couldn't be apart. There were even some who believed that humans had soulmates too, they were just blind to the bond binding them. Even with the fae, the cord couldn't be seen all the time. The first time was the first time the two halves connected, sight and touch, they were said to be able to feel the connection and briefly see the cord itself, a ribbon of light and magic tying the two halves together. After that, the cord was said to only be visible under the strongest moments for the couple; like when their bond was finalized (consummated).

And yet it wasn't all perfect. It was well-known that once a match had been finalized, each half could no longer live without the other, it was simply impossible. Also, any serious hurt to one would affect both of them (which could be positive, when the healthy one gave energy to the hurt; but it could be bad when it ended with both of them hurt). It was also believed that if a bond were to remain unfinished it tended to drive one or both halves to unhealthy (and downright dangerous) extremes. This usually happened when one half of the match reached a generation where they became non-magical; the cord existed, but the connection couldn't be sealed. There were no official stories of any couple where two fae-blooded might be connected and not have sealed their bond (though there were a great many such stories in fiction, dramas and comedies and romances alike).

"I have fae blood." Anthea explained quality. "From the Shadow Line. It's diluted so much that I cannot do what my ancestors once could, like walking through shadows, but I can still use them in my advantage."

"Like a covert mission." John was instantly on the same line of thought as she was.

"Like a covert mission." She agreed. "I can use the shadows to hide myself, and you, if you still wish to come. So we can go into that hideout, get Sherlock and get out, before MI6 get there and storm the place."

"What are we waiting for then?" He asked.

 **xXx**

Anthea and John were on a top secret private plane just a few hours later. They'd departed late in the night and with the front of being on a mercy mission (John's credentials had helped, and Anthea had no problem calling herself Lorna and claiming to be a nurse).

"It's gonna take a few hours to get there." Anthea told him softly at one point. "You could get some sleep if you want."

"I wouldn't be able to." He answered simply.

She just nodded. They'd been talking before the plane got off the ground, discussing what each of them brought to the table. Anthea (and he still didn't know what her real name was) was a former MI5 who'd left the service after meeting Mycroft.

"He's my match." She confided quietly at John's disbelieving look. "There really was no other choice for me after we first met."

John had no response to that. He'd heard the stories, of the people willing to leave anything and everything to follow their match; he'd believed them all to be nothing more than stories, though he knew that even in the military you could apply for extended leave, and if necessary discharge if you met your match and they weren't part of the military (especially if the match was the kind of individual that was 'protected' by the government, so to speak, like expert doctors, important scientists and such).

Actually, John had to admit the surprise was more on the fact that it was Mycroft. Of course he'd known the Holmes were fae-blooded, he'd seen Sherlock use magic every once in a while (though he was proud enough to prefer to deal with his cases the mundane way for the most part); but he had never imagined either of them with a match. Sherlock simply because he seemed asexual and all his devotion went to the Work; and John just hadn't been able to picture the kind of person that could be considered Mycroft's perfect match... though that was probably because he'd never contemplated the possibility of Anthea being fae.

Eventually the conversation moved past that. John spoke about all his years in service, including a very slight mention of a couple of missions he'd done with the SAS, as well as the five years he'd spent with the MI6.

"You were intelligence?" Anthea was honestly surprised by that. "But there's nothing about that in any of your files. Even the SAS things, there are hints, not specifically of the SAS, but of there having been classified ops... however, there's nothing about you ever being MI6."

"My files were erased shortly before I was discharged." John told her honestly.

"Erased...?" Anthea's mind was working a mile a minute. "But they only do that for... John..." Her eyes were wide like never before. "Were you a 00?!"

John chuckled, eyes alight with mirth.

"No." He admitted after a moment. "I was a candidate, though."

Then he proceeded to give her a very abridged version of a mission he'd once been sent on with two fellow agents (and candidates), which had ended with him dropping out of the mission to stay back and look after a badly injured 00 (who'd been sent before them and gone missing). It was also because of that, that he was dismissed from intelligence, others had decided that his actions were signs of insubordination and could not be allowed to stand. At the same time, enough people (including his two companions, who'd gone on to become 00s shortly after that mission, in fact, and M herself) had spoken well enough of him to allow him to return to service in the military (a cover had been made to explain his five years in MI6).

Anthea couldn't help but look at John with new eyes. So much she hadn't known about, and Mycroft still didn't know; though she doubted any of it would change the way her match looked at the doctor, as it had nothing to do with his professionalism. She considered trying to find more about that area but didn't quite know how to ask; in the end she didn't have to, John brought up the topic all on his own.

"My family used to have magic, you know?" He commented softly. "Not the Watsons, no, the Watsons have been quite human for more generations than I can count. No, I'm talking about my mother's family, the Carters. They used to be one of the strongest lines, their gift being that of True Sight. And I mean not only precognition, but also remote viewing, and even seeing through lies, secrets, illusions, and everything else."

Anthea felt marveled yet again. She'd heard of the Line of the True Sight, lost generations before, though no one knew quite how it'd happened.

"Then how...?" She asked quietly.

"Well from what I know, and this is family legend mind you." John warned before explaining anything. "It is said that Grandma Margaret found her match young, in the middle of the war. They were both involved see, she because of her power, while he was a soldier. Then there was some great tragedy, and he died. It is said that Grandma blamed the magic for her loss and, in her grief, she used a very archaic, almost lost ritual to burn all the magic off her blood."

"She erased her own powers?!" Anthea was horrified at the idea. "Can that even be done?"

"It could, in the past." John nodded. "She burnt the Carter Grimoire afterwards so... and I don't know if any other line would have such information anymore."

It was obvious that Anthea liked her powers, even if she wasn't capable of everything some of her ancestors had once done; she just couldn't fathom the idea of someone purposefully erasing their own magic. There was also the fact that she'd heard more than once that for a fae, losing their magic meant losing their life, they couldn't survive without it and yet Dr. W... John's grandmother somehow had.

"She was already pregnant with my mother." John went on. "And thus Stephanie Carter was born without a single drop of magic..." He shrugged. "It's not like any of us can miss what we've never had, but I'll admit I have wondered at times, what my life would have been like if she hadn't done what she did..." He snorted to himself. "Who knows? Maybe the magic would have been lost by my generation anyway."

Anthea didn't know quite what to say to that, wasn't sure anything could be said at all, so in the end she held her silence.

 **xXx**

Even after having left British soil, the mission wasn't easy. The plane had landed in a private airstrip several miles away from the terrorist hideout. They used a couple of bikes, as it was faster and less noticeable than most other methods of transport. They knew that depending how hurt Sherlock was, the return might be harder, but in that moment their focus was on getting there and finding Sherlock.

They'd just gotten inside, which hadn't been easy at all, for a remote and supposedly well-hidden place, they had too many patrols; when the comm inside Anthea's ear buzzed somewhat loudly in the stressful silence. It only got worse when the woman's response to whatever had been said was a string or curses in what appeared to be french.

"What...?" John asked, knowing instinctively he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Somewhere inside MI6 there is a mole." Anthea stated, teeth almost grinding in anger. "We know this because someone just tipped off a certain terrorist group of the coming operation. That is why there are so many patrols and so much activity. They are getting ready, though whether to flee or fight we don't yet know. In any case, the higher-ups have decided to move up the timetable with the mission itself, which means we have half the time we thought we did, if we're lucky. And MI6 will be coming in hot..."

Which meant shooting at anything and everything that moved, they really needed to get out of there before the strike team arrived... and that wasn't even the worst part.

"If they're really going to flee, then they will make sure to leave nothing behind." John stated, tongue bitter with dread. "Including prisoners."

They were going to kill Sherlock.

"We need to hurry..." Anthea hissed, though she didn't move.

And he knew why. Even though they had a rough understanding of the hideout, thanks to all of Sherlock's reports over the last months; they still had no way of knowing just where he might be. The original plan had been to take advantage of Anthea's talent to comb through the place unseen. But if they no longer had the time...

"Come, this way."

The woman wasn't expecting it when John suddenly took charge of the operation and began marching down the hallway stoically. She probably wouldn't have moved if he hadn't been pretty much pulling on her arm (for her power to extend to him they needed to have direct contact). She didn't ask any questions. Seeing him so focused... it was like Captain Watson somehow knew exactly where to go...

Several times Anthea considered trying to stop John, questioning what made him take all the twists and turns he did, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason for any of it; yet there was such seriousness in his expression, such focus in his eyes as he moved, that she never spoke. And then they were suddenly standing before a metal door.

The door wasn't locked, it wasn't even fully closed. Anthea very carefully used the tip of her foot to push it open... John was moving before she fully realized what was going on.

In an instant John Watson dashed across the room, the 'cell', and went for the man in the middle. It didn't matter that the other man (possibly Russian) was much taller; in no time unassuming John Watson had him in a choke-hold, and in it didn't stop there, not until the other man's neck was broken. In that moment Anthea understood just how John Watson had been MI6 as well as a 00 candidate (what she didn't understand was why M ever let him go...).

It was until all was said and done that Anthea realized why John had done that. In the center of the room, with arms chained together and hanging from a hook in the ceiling, was none other than Sherlock Holmes... whom the Russian had been about to stab in the chest. If they'd arrived just a handful of seconds later... she didn't even want to contemplate it.

She might have been Mycroft Holmes's match, but that did not mean she could understand Sherlock (she could hardly understand her own soulmate sometimes...). She cared greatly for the consulting detective, like a quirky little brother, even if most of the time she wasn't quite sure how to act around him. There was a part of Anthea that believed that no one truly understood Sherlock Holmes... not until John Watson.

It was a heart-wrenching moment. Seeing Sherlock so horribly hurt, and realize there was just no time to treat him. So, with that in mind, John quietly apologized to his half-unconscious best friend, took him down from the hook and then used the tie around his hands to help place him over his shoulder (the one where he hadn't been shot).

"We need to get moving." He told Anthea. "Something tells me we have less time than we thought we did, even an hour ago."

She nodded, she had that feeling too.

It wasn't easy, running down halls, retracing their steps to get out of what was half a set of connected buildings, half a cave system; with Anthea keeping touch with both men so as to cover them with her power; and at the same time be on guard of any men that might pass (her talent made the invisible to the eye, but not intangible).

They'd just made it out when the comm buzzed for the second time and John could almost hear Mycroft's less-than-composed voice yelling at Anthea to get out, because the strike-team had arrived and there were talks about simply blowing the whole place up.

When all was said and done John would have honest trouble specifying which mission had been worse, the first one he'd had with his two best friends in MI6 (before they were even friends, which had involved them spending too much time in a single room in a dingy hotel somewhere in Morocco, in-communicated due to some freak accident. They'd nearly shot each other more than once and it'd ended when James had seduced a masseuse who by some odd coincidence happened to have information that helped them finish the mission), or that one. In the former, he'd been new still to the whole intelligence business, and he, James and Alec had clashed in many ways with their quite different training and backgrounds; though in the end they were all professionals and capable of moving past that. In that moment the mission might have been much shorter, and aside from the man in the cell, they hadn't even come in contact with anyone; and yet seeing Sherlock like that was enough to leave John feeling exhausted in a much different way... his heart ached and his every nerve was tense.

Neither John nor Anthea relaxed in the slightest until they were in the air again; and even then John wouldn't allow himself the chance to clock-off at all. No, there might be no more need for Captain Watson for that day, but he was still Doctor Watson...

Thankfully they had a pretty good kit on board. It had been John's own idea, he had prior experience with POWs; and while it hadn't been said at the time, it was obvious they'd all known already what Sherlock's state was likely to be. At least he was alive, John promised himself he could deal with anything else after that.

John worked tirelessly for most of their flight back to London, ignoring Anthea's insistence that he ought to rest at least a bit. Eventually she gave up, instead choosing to assist where she could (and when he allowed it). Of course, what she didn't understand, couldn't possibly have, was the need John felt to do something, to help, like he hadn't been able to during the two years Sherlock had been hunting down the members of Moriarty's web; when he'd been hurt in so many ways and John hadn't been able to be there to watch his back, to shoot those who might try to hurt him and patch him up when necessary.

John would never forget all the late nights and early mornings, feeling phantom pains all over his body, the tears he refused to let fall. He couldn't cry, he didn't have the right; because Sherlock hadn't trusted him, not to take him along, not even to tell him the truth, and if the consulting detective couldn't do that, then the doctor must have done something wrong, right? Or maybe he was just a fool believing that he was anything special to Sherlock, that being called his only friend gave him any special rights, especially when the other man had already rejected him in every single way John could be rejected; had from the very start...

"He's your match!" Anthea blurted out abruptly (and loudly).

John's head snapped up so hard his neck ached, he opened his mouth to give a denial, then just let out a breath in a defeated tone knowing there just was no point.

"But how?" Anthea asked, mostly getting herself back under control. "I thought... I mean, you have no magic."

"No, not in my blood, but I'm still fae, somehow..." John shrugged in resignation. "Don't ask me how it works, because I have no idea. Anyway, you do know that if a fae loses their magic completely they die, right?"

The other woman nodded stiffly.

"Well, I suppose that what Grandma did made it so she lost just enough magic that she could no longer use it in anyway, but not so much that her life would be lost." He shook his head. "It's not like I actually know what she did. But the consequences have been made quite clear in the last two generations. Even after what Grandma did, she never stopped feeling the loss of her husband. My mother too, she never had any active magic, but she still found her match, my father..."

"But the Watsons..."

"They aren't magical, no. It's one of the stories that are never told. The fae who find their match in someone who cannot see it themselves, cannot seal it... Father believed in it, or so he said. He would tell anyone who asked that he believed his wife when she said they were soulmates... for a few years everything was perfect. And then... there was an accident, terrible. My father lost his job and ended permanently scarred... it was bad. And along with the physical ones, there were the psychological marks. He believed himself to be hideous, that no one could love him, and no matter how many reassurances mother tried to give him, nothing seemed to be enough. He drunk himself to an early grave a few years later. Mother... she might have never finalized the bond with him, never could; but her love and devotion for him were still absolute, she died of heartbreak not long afterwards."

"Oh John..." Anthea really didn't know what to say.

"The whole thing made Harry terrified. When she found her soulmate in Clara... she loved the other woman like crazy, yet was too afraid to even try to finalize the bond. Her refusal, added to Clara's own sense of rejection was what drove them apart in the end, probably even more than Harry's awful drinking."

"But that doesn't explain... you and Sherlock..."

"Anthea, I've known Sherlock and I were a match from the moment I lent him my phone, that first afternoon, in the lab in St. Bart's."

"But then why...?"

"He doesn't want me, he's never wanted me. It's just... Sherlock's just not interested. I tried to broach the subject a couple of times during the first week, and he made it quite clear he wasn't interested and that he was married to his work. Whether he's asexual or simply has no interest in me in particular I do not know, and I stopped focusing on it years ago. I'm happy enough just being his friend... well when he allows that much at least."

"Of course you're his friend! John, you cannot believe..."

"Half of the time I don't know what to believe." It hurt to admit so much, but once he'd started he just couldn't stop. "I told you, we're connected by the silver cord. I'm sure you know what that means. Even if we never sealed the bond, the connection is there, and I can feel it, have every day... Every Single One..."

"The Fall..."

"The Fall... I knew something was wrong even before I saw him standing on that bloody rooftop, I could taste it, like vinegar in the back of my tongue and then... but he wouldn't tell me anything. He jumped off a bloody roof, faked his death and never told me a thing!" The man took a deep, ragged breath. "He didn't care enough to warn me about what was going on. Not even to tell me the truth afterwards. But every single day that he was gone I could feel him; his anxiety, his worry, sometimes even his pain... Like those last few days, right before he came back... and even when he returned, he walked back into my life, like he'd just gone out for a walk, or running after a suspect and forgotten about me, like he used to do every so often, like he hadn't been away for two years, leaving me supposedly believing he was dead!" He broke off his rant abruptly. "Trust me when I tell you Anthea, Sherlock doesn't want me, and that's that."

Nothing else was said, the woman simply didn't think anything else could, not after what John had told her already. Though one thing was for sure, they were missing something, they had to. She might not be a genius like the Holmes, but she wasn't stupid, or blind, she was sure Sherlock cared for John, very much. Which meant there must be a reason for the gross misunderstanding. Yes, there must be a very good reason...

 **xXx**

It took six weeks for Sherlock to recover from most of his injuries. Mycroft had refused to let him go back to Baker Street until then. John suspected that what had happened had scared the older Holmes enough to want to keep an eye on his brother until he was convinced of his recovery. Which explained why John hadn't been involved too much with it. Aside from visiting his friend every day for a few hours and helping him with a few things whenever Sherlock happened to push too hard at the hospital personnel.

The last few days John didn't see him at all. Even when he would go to the hospital, he was told that Sherlock couldn't receive him. If the doctor was honest with himself, he was afraid. He feared something might have happened that would make the consulting detective push him away for good; after everything that had happened already, everything they'd been through... John wasn't sure he would be able to survive that.

Finally the day came when Sherlock was due to return. John, nervous as he was, busied himself with preparing some tea. He was about to open the fridge to get the milk when suddenly he became aware of a shift in the air.

"Sherlock!" He cried out, spinning around to face the newcomer.

John had been so tense he hadn't heard any of the doors opening, or when his friend had gone up the seventeen steps.

"John..." Sherlock murmured, voice deep with some feeling John couldn't pin-point.

The former captain didn't know what to say. The consulting detective didn't say anything else either, but he was staring at John like he could see into the older man's soul.

"Sherlock...?" The blonde called softly, confused. "Wha...?"

He didn't get the chance to finish the question, not even the thought; his mind went completely blank in an instant and the last thing he registered was the soft but strong mouth claiming his, claiming him with such power John could do nothing except surrender.

The kiss went on, all open mouth, lips and tongue, bodies pressing together, slotting like two pieces of a puzzle fitting together perfectly. And then, right when John was beginning to regain cognizance, something else threw him for a loop. At first he had no idea what it was exactly, only that it felt almost like euphoria filling him slowly, along with an overflow of pure energy. It was until he opened his eyes, just a slit, when he suddenly saw the sparkling cord thickening and seemingly winding itself around them, forming a cocoon of sorts.

"Sherlock...!" John moaned fighting against his deepest instincts to pull his mouth away from his friend's (though he couldn't break the embrace. "Wha... What are... what are you doing?!"

"It should be obvious." Sherlock drawled, latching onto his neck next.

"Sher... Sherlock..." A part of John just wanted to surrender, to let the other do as he wanted, but he respected himself, both of them, too much for that.

"Anna told me." He answered simply.

"Anna?" John didn't understand.

"You know her as Anthea."

He moved in for another kiss, but at the same time that John made the connection of the name, and the realization of the only thing Anna could have told Sherlock that would make him change his attitude; it was the equivalent of a bucket of ice water for the doctor.

"No." He stated, voice as hard as he could make it.

"John..." He began, seeming honestly confused by the doctor's attitude.

"No Sherlock." John hissed, standing his ground. "I can take many things from you, a great many things. Your friendship, your ignorance, your callousness, and stubbornness, and cleverness, and recklessness, your disregard for others, lack of understanding of feelings, the way you can be so ignorant of the most ridiculous things, and so kind at the most unexpected times... I can take many things from your Sherlock but I will not take your pity... I cannot."

"This is not pity." Sherlock practically hissed.

"Then tell me what it is Sherlock, because I honestly do not understand! It's been five and a half years since we met and you never cared about the silver cord. Why now? Why...?"

"Because I didn't know you could see it too!"

The response was so simple and, in a certain, twisted way so obvious, that John simply didn't seem to have words for it.

"I saw it, that day, in Bart's Lab, when you lent me your phone." Sherlock began half-ranting half-babbling. "I saw the silver cord, and then I turned to see your reaction and... nothing, there was nothing there at all! No recognition, no shock, no realization. And then Mycroft told me you weren't fae. I thought you couldn't see it, that you didn't know. Then you were there at Baker Street, and when you heard my deductions you called me brilliant instead of telling me to piss off, and you would roll your eyes at the body parts but you never screamed, or threw things or demanded that I change; and even when we fought, you chose to walk off your anger, but you never yelled at me, never got violent, never moved out. Even when I faked my death and hurt you, and I know now I hurt you, more than I expected or would have ever wanted to. You were still here when I came back, you took me back, helped me find my home again..." He made a pause before adding. "You never called me a freak, and never gave up on me."

John couldn't think of something to say to that, no words in any language that he knew... so he used one that needed no words. He rose to the tips of his toes and, placing one hand on each of Sherlock's shoulders for balance, reached up for a kiss.

There was no need for any more words after that. Even the 'I love yous' became irrelevant when the silver cord was already shining so brightly, and slowly allowing the feelings each of them had to slid down it and across to the other half. There was no doubt that by the end of the night their bond would be finalized, strong enough that nothing and no one would ever be able to break it, would ever be able to tear them apart.

And maybe they would never know if fae had once been just another race or a whole different species, or what kind of rite Margaret Carter had used that had left her whole line unable to wield any kind of magic, and yet still seeing their silver cords. And maybe not all matches were perfect, and even with those that were well-suited things would never be exactly a fairy-tale. But that was alright, because in the end it was all worth it.

* * *

So what do you think? I was reading some pretty good Sherlock fics with magic and soulmates and all that and I couldn't help but want to make one of my own, and the idea fit so well with this series! I hope you liked it, and that I explained well enough why John and Sherlock weren't together from the start.

I was nice to Mary on this one! I know at least one or two of my readers like her (though, ever since that certain scene in episode 3.3 I cannot fathom why...). Anyway, hope that was alright with you all.

So, this was the second to last piece in this series/collection. And for the great finale (aja...) I have something very special planned. A fix-it for the actual HLV! Which means no crossovers, no changes (except for keeping to what has pretty much become my headcannon for John, former MI6 and all that); I'll be picking up on the season finale and go from there. Hope you'll like it (hope you liked this one too), see you next week with that!


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